Dream a Little Dream of Me
by The Feisty Rogue
Summary: Arthur didn't often find himself craving the simplicity of sitting in a bar and listening to live music, but when he did he always found himself in London, at Charlie's.


Dream a Little Dream of Me

* * *

Arthur didn't often find himself craving the simplicity of sitting in a bar and listening to live music, but when he did he always found himself in London, at Charlie's.

Charlie's was an underground bar in Brixton. If you didn't know where it was, you'd have never been able to find it. Then entrance was hidden down an alley, an innocuous black door dark again weather worn brick.

Arthur tapped twice, and then raised an eyebrow when someone pulled back the hatch. The door was opened moments later, and he was hustled in.

"Arthur!" Gigantic hands pulled him into a hug, and Arthur allowed it. He always did.

"Hello George. How's the wife?" he asked when he was eventually released.

George loomed over him, a wide grin upon his face. "Splendid, just splendid. You're looking good, as usual."

Arthur glanced down himself. He was dressed in a ink black Dunhill, bow tie hanging loose around his neck, his one concession to the lateness of the hour.

"Thanks," he said.

George patted his shoulder. "Go on up then." He jerked his head toward the stairs. "The band's good tonight."

Arthur took the stairs two at a time, running a hand through his hair. Every time he came here he formed more and more emotional attachments - but he couldn't quite bring himself to stop, not just yet.

He entered the lounge, pausing in the doorway to let the music wash over him. There was an older man in suspenders and a fedora playing a saxaphone, eyes closed, engrossed in his music. He had a piano accompaniment, who was hidden in shadow at the bottom of the stage, and to the side a woman stood swaying, in an emerald ball gown and pearls matching her perfectly coiffed auburn hair. She was not yet singing, but Arthur suspected she would, later.

"Whiskey sour?" Lucy asked as he approached the bar. She was already mixing one for him.

"You know it," Arthur replied, and exchanged the drink for his card. The glass tumbler was cool in his hand, and he leaned against the bar for a moment to watch the sax bow back, hitting a perfect 'c' in a long, pure note. He soaked up the atmosphere, a lazy, satisfied feeling. The lounge was cosy, as always, dark mahogany furnishings covered with plush fabrics, intentionally reminiscent of a 1920's speakeasy.

In the corner of the bar was a chair that had an excellent view of all the entrances and exits to the room, and Arthur sunk into it. The view of the stage was a little obscured, which was why it was never taken, but he didn't really mind that.

He sipped his drink, and listened to the dulcet tones of the woman's voice as she began to sing, with the pianist performing backing vocals, the sax moving to the side of the stage to give her space. Her voice was low and smooth, and she crooned into the microphone with the confidence of someone that knew they were talented.

The pianist was skillfully improvising - Arthur could tell, as he knew the song well - but the vocalist didn't seem to mind. While Arthur wasn't normally a fan of deviation in his professional life, the soul of jazz music centred around spontaneity and together the performers gave a beautiful rendition of the song.

"You gotta make me a promise, promise to me… You'll dream, dream a little dream of me."

Arthur smiled to himself.

The rest of the evening passed peacefully, Arthur nursing his whiskeys, to engrossed in the music to be in the mood for drinking properly. As the night grew late, the beat of the music quickened, and the room grew darker. A few people danced, bodies pressing together, before tumbling out the door after the song was over, eager to get home. Even Arthur had relaxed, shedding his suit jacket, and undoing the top two buttons on his shirt.

Through it all the pianist continued to stay in shadow, but there was something about his voice when that nagged at Arthur. For this reason, Arthur stayed even as the other patrons began to filter out, intrigued.

"What did you think of him?"

Arthur slid his gaze sideways to Lucy, who was wiping down the tables.

"Who?"

She smirked. "Charlie, of course. The pianist."

"The owner?" Arthur asked. He'd never met the mysterious Charlie, and part of him had assumed that the man had passed away, leaving only his bar as his legacy.

"That's him," Lucy confirmed, and winked at him. "He's a funny one. Always travelling. Pretends to be mysterious, but we all know the truth. He's a softie at heart."

"Giving all my secrets away, are you Luce?"

Arthur froze, then scrambled to his feet. While singing, the voice had niggled at his memory, but bellowed across a bar…

"Mr Eames," Arthur said, wishing he'd brought his gun, but glad for the weight of the knife strapped to his thigh. He never knew how their encounters would go.

Eames poked his head around the corner past the stage, a comical expression on his face.

"Arthur?" he exclaimed, and he sounded incredulous.

It was a shame that Eames was too good an actor for Arthur to know if it was true.

"Oh, you know each other?" Lucy asked. She seemed delighted. "Charlie, Arthur's that customer I was telling you about."

"Quiet, no-nonsense, keeps to himself," Eames listed. "I really should have guessed."

He looked as suspicious as Arthur felt, and that was what persuaded Arthur this entire thing hadn't been a set up.

"I like your bar," Arthur said simply. "I really enjoyed the music tonight."

A flicker of a smile crossed Eames' face, and he jerked his head at Lucy.

"Go on love, I'll finish closing for tonight."

Lucy looked between them, and grinned. "Sure thing, boss," she said, and was out of there quicker than a flash.

Eames and Arthur stood there, staring at each other for a long moment. The atmosphere of the bar weighed heavy on Arthur, but not unpleasantly.

Eames was dressed unusually well, and all he needed was a cap to fit into the 1920's era he'd obviously been aiming for.

He looked good.

"I hope I'm not dreaming," Eames said. He dipped his hand into his pocket, presumably checking for his totem.

"You're not," Arthur said. He rolled his shoulders, relaxing his stance.

"No…" Eames said slowly. "No, I'm not." A grin slid onto his face. "Well, darling, this is just a wonderful surprise."

Arthur huffed. "Incorrigible flirt."

"Guilty." Eames smirked. "How did you like my choice of songs?" He stepped forward. "Stars fading but I linger on dear, still craving your kiss…"

Arthur rolled his eyes, but couldn't keep his smile off of his face. Eames swept forward, and their kiss felt like a supernova; a beautiful explosion that would last forever.

"Eames," Arthur murmured against his mouth, "I can't believe you own my favourite jazz bar." He didn't bother to suppress his laughter.

Eames drew back a moment to grin, looking Arthur up and down, and then he too burst into delighted chuckles.

"I can't believe it either."

Their gazes met, and mirth became something heated, heavier. Arthur stepped forward and shoved at Eames, who tumbled to the floor, but not without bringing Arthur down too. They rolled, scrabbling at each other. Arthur bit at Eames' lips, and was kissed back fiercely in return.

"Fuck, Arthur," Eames panted. Arthur rolled his hips and pinned Eames' arms to the floor, holding himself propped above him. He leaned down until their noses brushed. Eames' eyes gleamed, and he didn't seem to object to having been caught at all.

"You're gorgeous, and don't you fucking know it," Arthur growled. He bit Eames' jaw, and slid a leg between Eames' thighs.

Eames groaned, and writhed against it. Arthur shifted up, giving him something to grind on. He went back to sucking kisses against Eames' throat until he reached the collar of his shirt, and snarled in displeasure at having been stopped from moving further down.

Eames was laughing again, even as he moaned with each minute thrust of Arthur's legs.

"You can unwrap me later," he managed to choke out.

Arthur huffed, and freed one of Eames' hands so he could tear open his shirt, exposing a nipple. Eames moaned when Arthur ran the pad of his finger over it, and his entire body jerked when Arthur gently licked it.

"Arthur!" he hissed. Arthur rolled his hips. Eames arched, eyes sliding shut, and shuddered as he came. Arthur pressed his body down, grinding them together, and was blindsided by his own orgasm when Eames clutched at his ass with his free hand.

"Fuck," Arthur groaned into Eames' collarbone. He'd collapsed on top of the other man.

Eames was carding a hand through Arthur's hair.

"Well, that was utterly delightful, darling," he said. His voice was ragged, breaths still coming harshly.

Arthur held himself up over Eames to catch his gaze. The fondness in Eames' eyes was surprising, although perhaps it shouldn't have been.

"Yeah," Arthur said, and sagged back down, curling a little into Eames' chest to hide his smile. "Yeah, it was."

* * *

 _Word Count: 1535_

 _Auction: 47. Restriction: must write smut_


End file.
